Let's Be an Office in the 1970's

I'm the typewriter. They made me easy to use so a woman could have a job.

I'm the question "Are you weird or just retarded?" when my boss sees my McGovern '72 sticker.

I’m the office drunk. I was a joke back then, and tolerated with a tight smirk.

I’m the understall action with married straight guys. No AIDS yet and homophobia was different. Sometimes a guy’s just gotta cum.

I'm the receptacles filled with sand that were set about to accommodate cigarette butts during that era.

I'm the dot matrix printer.

I'm the emerald green Saarinen furniture in the sparsely decorated reception waiting area.

I'm Liquid Paper.

I’m enjoyable because there are no woke HR cunts holding everyone hostage.

I'm the new key-to-disk Inforex machine everyone is breaking a sweat over learning how to use.

I'm the diet:

Black coffee and cigarettes all morning.

Three scotch lunch at a restaurant.

After lunch black coffee and cigarettes.

2 pm drug pick me up.

4 pm scotch and cigars.

6 pm dinner at home made by the Mrs. and it damn well better be on the table.

After dinner, I read the paper and have a scotch and a cigar. Then Carol Burnett with a scotch and the Mrs., then the Mrs. leaves and I can watch Dick Cavett and a scotch before bed.

My dad^

*

I'm the upbeat muzak piped in to the elevator, hallways, break rooms, and reception areas since 1968. I sound like a knockoff of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass combined with Vince Guaraldi. The only refuge from me is the actual offices themselves. I'm supposed to keep everyone in a happy, productive mood, but I am slowly driving them insane. The Powers That Be will only finally stop playing me in 1985 after a mass shooting takes out almost everyone in the building. The shooter tells his therapist I am what drove him to the shooting.

R9 For your protected class. Own your hypocracy. Own your bigotry. Own your white supremacy. You owned everything else including my body. Earn the titles they earn.

I'm the fake wood panel walls.

R15 Teacunt, take some accountability for your own life. It’s not 1850 anymore.

R17 who the fuck do you think you are insulting with your racist antebellum bigotry. I must pray.

R18 Teacunt, you best calm ya ass down, bitch, or you gonna get red tagged and blocked.

We're carbon paper and white out.

R11- The topic of this thread is not

scenes from MADMEN

R13-I always liked that handsome extra standing behind Ted

I'm Ginny, the new temp. I've been assigned to "Billing."

I’m the snack cart that comes through mid-morning and mid-afternoon.

I'm the receptionist in her 30's whose Mitzi Gaynor hairstyle makes her look 50.

I am the IBM Selectric II typewriter. I am the precursor to word processing machines.

Changing fonts is as easy as changing my element.

I'm the worn copies of Esquire, Sports Illustrated and Rona Barrett's Gossip sitting on the waiting room table.

That typewriter was the greatest. I loved the sound of an IBM II

I'm the Leggs pantyhose

I am a microfiche machine. I make document retrieval a breeze.

I’m the clerk who’s told to drive to LAX and get on a plane to SFO with key documents in hand. I’m the fastest delivery available.

I am IBM Selectric correction tape.

I make Wite-Out obsolete. I also make huffing Wite-Out obsolete.

I'm the voluptuous secretary all the men in the office call "Boobsie."

No matter how old you are everyone looks to be at least 50. I am 50.

R6, printing out Merry Christmas banners.

I'm the ass and boob grabbing of all the women under 30.

I'm the "Hang in there Baby" poster in the break room.

I’m the weekly paycheck, delivered to my desk by Ginny in Billing

I'm the copies of Oui and Penthouse in the boss's locked bottom drawer.

I'm the cool kids, ducking out to smoke Thai Stick in the park at lunch hour. We only work in this godawful office because we graduated from college and the are no real jobs due to it being the 1970s.

I'm Earl, the bookkeeper. My wife and I are swingers.

I'm Violet Newstead, confusing rat poison for Skinny and Sweet.

I'm the jar of hardened Sanka sitting next to the coffee maker.

I'm the vending machine with coffee, only 10 cents a cup!

I am a union job in 1973. A snow storm closes the airport in my town, the very day pay-checks are air-expressed in from company payroll processing facility in New Jersey. Watch as plant management scrambles to get enough cash to pay 600 union employees, as per the union agreement. Otherwise, no tickee, no washee, and that's a problem.

I'm the receptionist's smoker's voice.

the Mother in Law's Tongue. Soon to be replaced with ferns. Followed by a ficus and then they finally just knock down my big stone planter that sits in the middle of the lobby. Somebody suggests a fish tank but nothing ever comes of it.

I'm the dumping ashes down the busty secretary's bosom because I saw Mel Brooks do it in a movie. It's funny

I'm a torn box full of ancient xmas decorations - homemade, tarnished, forgotten - from various office eras. until the time each year some underling is ordered to create a xmas display. Then I am dug out of storage, opened, and quickly closed up and put back.

I am the powdered drink called tang that was advertised as being used by astronauts

I'm the refrigerator in the break room. I STINK to high heaven!

I’m the watergate salad at the office Christmas party.

I’m rape and sexual harassment. I didn’t actually happen that much. The myth of me was drummed up by histrionic feminists.

I'm the hip salesman who calls you "Sexytary". It gets me nowhere.

I'm the pink salad served at parties

I’m the boss, always called Mr. (insert surname) by the secretaries.

I’m the avocado green IBM Selectric my father brought home from the office when I was replaced with a newer machine. I smell like cigarettes and always will for the next 10 years I’m in the house.

I'm these handy dandy coffee mugs with plastic Solo cup disposable insert.

No washing!

I'm Ginny and I'm the only woman in the office.

Well, Madge the secretary is a female but she's one of the guys.

I’m this phone

I'm the pencil used to dial a telephone - not just rotary phones, but buttons, too - because Marjorie's nails are too long.

I'm Betty in the typing pool. My gal pal Louise keeps talking about something called "women's lib," but I'm just on the hunt for a husband. All the girls know the new dreamy executive is single, so I have to work fast.

We're the Playgirl magazines hidden deep in the filing cabinet. Some of the men in the office look through us for hours when they are "working overtime" in the otherwise-empty office. They can't help themselves after the secretaries go gaga when pulling open the centerfolds.

I’m the Carpenters piped in through the ceiling.

^^^That sounds like an OSHA violation.

I’m a spider plant

I’m the 3 martini lunch breath

I’m patching you through

I'm the BIG American sedans ( NOT SUVs or Pickup trucks) filling up the outdoor parking lots in big cities all over America.

I'm the plastic typewriter cover. It signifies to everyone that you've gone home.

I’m a salesman busting out my best wop joke.

I'm *72. If you're working late an you hear a BONG over the intercom it means someone is calling. You're supposed to answer.

I'm Telex. It saves us a lot of money on long distance calls. Ask Gayle in the supply office for your onetime code.

I'm a leisure suit!

I'm the very generous safety net provided to all the employees and the sense that the success of the company is shared with them through job security, reasonable salaries, regular promotion and benefits benefits benefits. I'm dental, and vision, and medical insurance, a plus corporate country club for every employee including the pink collars, credit unions, cheap mortgages, matching contributions, and college scholarships. Reagan has not yet decreed all profits are to benefit only executives and shareholders, never employees and retirees.

I’m the office potluck. Ambrosia for everyone!

I’m the dictaphone desk unit where I record all of my correspondence to be transcribed later.

Filing cabinets everywhere

I'm Bryce, the only boy in the secretarial pool. Everyone thinks I do this so I can bed the ladies. Everyone except for Mrs. Randall, our boozy, floosy, supervisor. She keeps saying things like 'I think we'll assign you Mr. Carter today. I know you'll find him... stimulating.' and then she winks.

Let’s be an office in downtown Des Moines, Iowa today. Its literally the same thing.

We're the children and grandchildren of R75's workers (great comment BTW). Even though we get screwed every day by our employers, we support Republicans because they hate the blacks and the Mexicans too.

I'm the Charlie and Old Spice fumes wafting through the office.

I am the absence of that burnt microwave popcorn smell wafting through the building. Frankly, very few offices had a microwave oven in the 1970's.

R25 is the millennial dream version of the 70s, not the actual reality…don’t give credit where it is it deserved.

*not deserved

I'm the shiny marbled walls in the building lobby.

I'm the stench of Brylcreem in the men's restroom.

'm the office summer picnic and I'm the blue collar husband of one of the secretaries and I don't like the way these pencil pushing guys are looking at my wife. I know they just want to fuck her and they chase her around the office everyday. Meanwhile I'm stuck fixing their cars at the auto repair shop. I make sure they see my huge dong every time I use the urinal.

R88 I arrive at picnic wearing my blue coveralls too

I'm the discussion of I, Claudius in the breakroom. That Derek Jacobi is going places.

Combs in blue water in the men's restroom

A mechanical shoe shiner…near the men’s room exit…

Or the shoe shine stand in the lobby, next to the Bell Telephone booths.

I'm the credenza stocked with liquor in the boss' office. He says the liquor is for our visiting clients, but from 2 to 4, like clockwork, he helps himself to a bottomless tumbler of Scotch.

I'm the keys placed in a bowl at the front door, for the swingers party at Jim and Betty's house!

I'm R79's Bryce, eyeing Blue Collar Husband's huge dong in the men's room. This year's summer office picnic might not be as dull as it usually is.

I'm a 45 year old divorcee working in this hellhole as an entry level secretary. Get this: my husband dumped ME for HIS secretary. At 5:00 I'll fight traffic heading home in my wood grain Pinto wagon and feed my ungrateful kids Swanson chicken pot pies. I'll drink enough Almaden Chablis in an attempt to blunt the pain of my depressing existence.

I’m the boss’s buxom secretary. Everybody thinks I’m sleepin’ with him. No wonder they treat me like I’m some dimestore floozy!

I'm the rubber thing in the back of the reciever to rest your ear on your shoulder. It's welcome has the phone weighs about 2 pounds and if it's not breaking your nails it's breaking your neck

In the 1970s, R96 , a 45 yo divorcees kids would be in college or working.

We're the dingy macrame plant holder and the stain on the carpet directly below.

I'm the secretary's clip-on earrings. I take one of them off to answer the phone.

I'm the IBM clock on the wall showing the time to all the diligent workers since I was installed in 1952

I'm the passable quality of boring food in the company cafeteria.

I'm Millie, the waitress from the lobby coffee shop. I've been working here for years.

I’m Dora who also works in that coffee shop. I see and hear everything. I get extra tips for keeping my mouth shut.

I'm the wall of data processing equipment with reels and blinking lights in Rudy Wells' office.

I'm the secretary who's always called "sir" on the phone because of my smoker's voice.

I'm the steel band watch entangled in the boss's wrist hair.

R101, I always loved that move. 😀

I'm R104 's foot scraper.

I'm the state of the art IBM computer. I take up an entire room.

I'm the bulge in the Xerox photocopy repairman's trousers.

I'm the one black employee who only gets invited out to lunch the day after an episode of "Roots" airs.

I'm the half-empty can of Tab soda in the lunchroom fridge.

I'm the "Help Retarded Children" gumball machine in the lobby.

I’m the Rolodex on the boss’s desk.

I'm the windows on the 13th floor

I'm the wall of urinals in the men's room. There's not a divider in sight.

I'm surprised everyone let the dot matrix printer post in the beginning of the thread go by with nary a comment (that I have seen). Really, dot matrix printers didn't commonly show up in offices until the early 80s as the use of computers as commonplace office equipment in the 70s was somewhat rare at that point. Yes, there were HUGE ASS computers at very large companies and copiers (mimiographs, anyone?) were extremely standard, but having a dot matrix printer at the office wouldn't make much sense when barely anyone was using computers. Typewriters were the order of the day, dictophones/transcribers as well.

I'm an IMB Executive typewriter with keys of different widths. I'm shoved back in the corner on an old typing table because the only girl who knew how to use me demanded a raise and got fired.

I'm R75. I was born in 1981.

I'm the pantyhose.

I'm a Johnny Carson suit for Sears.

I'm the watercooler discussion of the latest episode of All in the Family.

Per R78 I am the pet filing cabinet of the boss’s son Lance who is supposed to be bootstrapping thru the company.

He has rammed all of his misplaced, non alphabetized files in the back. This time saver makes him feel ingenious and gives Lance the boost he needs to flirt with the prettiest secretary.

He doesn’t know she’s his dad’s mistress til she takes him to her shared apartment and he finds dad’s monogrammed hankerchief in her bathroom. Hilarity ensues.

I'm the polyester pantsuit with a tunic-length top. Women are now allowed to wear pants in the office with the caveat that the ass is covered.

I'm the groovy threads the cool cats in the office are wearing. Can you dig it?

I'm the fax machine. I'm the only one in the whole building and I have a special office that secretaries have to come to numerous times a day to pick up faxes. They hate it when they get that call "you have a fax."

I’m the receptionist who transfers the call from the boss’s wife, Mrs. William Mitchell.

Only this time she’s referred to herself as Ms. Dotty Mitchell. I smell divorce.

I'm Mr. Coffee. I was a big modern deal when I first arrived. The secretary gets stuck making coffee in me every morning even though she drinks hot tea.

I have never been cleaned and I am full of mold. Ha ha.

I'm the expectation of every straight man in the office that every woman's lady garden should be the size of a slice of New York pizza!

I'm Ms. Ann Romano and I'm not wearing a bra.

I’m the other gay guy on the 13th floor—the one who knows not to drink poppers—REAL poppers. I wonder what will 21st century gays will think of poppers?

R130 Why WAS Mr. Coffee such a big deal when it arrived? Was it the first countertop coffeemaker? Did people have to make coffee on the stove before then?

I'm the Dixie riddle cups at the water cooler.

I'm the photocopy of Hank from accounting's cock and balls that got jammed in the machine.

R134 Joe DiMaggio!

R136 He got his cock and balls jammed in the machine? I wonder if all that weird green light rendered him sterile.

I'm the payphone in the lobby of the building, there for when you want to make personal calls.

You’re a day late and a dollar short R139

Read b4 posting.

I am the mysterious, locked door on the first floor. I am pristine as if nobody has opened me for decades, at least since the last time I was painted. In reality, inside me is the PBX system. Dial 9 for an outside line.

I'm the big red button in the Vax computer room that says do not pull.

I"m the code you have te enter in at the copier to make sure they are charged to the right department.

I am the comforting sound of the IBM Selectrix at reception.

I'm the midnight blue shag carpeting in receiption and the gold trim on the receiption desk.

I’m the secretaries gathering around the break room TV to catch the finale of “The Secret Storm” in 1974.

Mr. Coffee was the first home drip brewer, R134. Before that, people used percolators. The drip brewers were simpler to use and produce a smoother flavor.

I’m the local business-sponsored wall calendar.

I'm Kathee Joy, Head Receptionist. I'm so busy yakking about my fab evening at the roller disco to anyone who pretends to listen . Meanwhile, the girls in the steno pool have to pick up all the calls I'm ignoring due to sharing my riveting account.

I'm the hot dog vendor on the street. The only street food available.

I’m Karl the elevator operator.

We’re gold chains.

Around necks.

On the men. Lots of gold chains.

I’m Helen, handsome wife to Dick in sales. He spanked me with a belt for overcooking the pork chops I served to his boss at dinner. What would he do if he knew the boss pinched my derrière?

I'm the pre MeToo Shenanigans

I'm R66's macrame plant holder.

I'm Bonnie, the secretary who, sixteen years ago, when Mister Peters asked me to take his shirts to the dry cleaners in the lobby, asked 'Would you like me to take your pants down too?'

Every fucking day since then some clown says 'Hey Bonnie! You wanna take my pants down?'

I’m the Xerox room.

I'm Ms. Mullins, diligently cutting a stencils for the mimeograph machine. We're a smaller office, and the boss is too cheap to buy a photocopier.

I'm the aforementioned Xerox machine. I am actually branded with the name Xerox. I am a prima donna supreme. I break at the slightest rough touch. I put stripes on copies when the whim strikes me.

When my copies become grey, the whole office gives me a wide berth because no one wants the filthy job of trying to change my toner.

My repairman has become a permanent fixture in the office, on a first-name basis with many of the staff.

I'm Mrs. Wiggins.

I'm the ubiquitous Earth Tones, in all the decor and on everyone's clothes! So what if I only flatter 10% of the population, I'm mandatory!

I'm obese hawgs.

I'm nowhere to be seen. Shirley, the executive secretary to the CFO, is what you might call "chunky," but she's about 50.

Cigarettes, black coffee, dexedrine, and good ol' peer pressure keep the rest of the guys & gals slim.

I’m the hard candy dish at the reception desk

I'm the pink while you were out message pads.

[quote]Cigarettes, black coffee, dexedrine, and good ol' peer pressure keep the rest of the guys & gals slim.

Some of us prefer the chewy chocolate appetite suppressant Ayds. Others are trying the Grapefruit Diet.

It's Monday and I'm Patty and Grace, the two Catholic, separated, secretaries on this floor, both mid 30s, wearing kind of sexy dresses and good makeup, talking about their kids reactions to folk mass at the modern red brick Catholic Church in their recently completed surburban neighborhood built to house the employees of this reasonably enlightened company that could be Texas Instruments or IBM or Xerox. Grace, from a good if modest family downtown, now lives in an apartment complex which has a racy reputation for swingers, some working class trash, and interracial mixing and she has gay friends who invite her disco dancing.

I'm the WATS line for free long distance calls that everybody uses to call relatives across the country when the boss is at lunch.